The Second Yes

by Amanda Tru

  He rose as she approached, but Lara didn’t wait to receive a kiss. She sat and allowed him to take her hand instead. “So glad you’re here.”

  “What was up with that table? You were a positive slave to them.”

  “They’re difficult customers. I made my point. They’ll eat free like they always do, but from now on it’ll be honestly.”

  He stared at her. “What does that mean?”

  So she told him—how every visit included their best meals, every bite eaten, and never satisfactory. “This time, we wanted to show them that they couldn’t cheat us out of good food. But now I know why.”

  “Why? Why would anyone do that?”

  “When you can’t afford to pay the bill.”

  His indignation flared. “If you can’t afford to pay the bill, you shouldn’t go out to eat.”

  Lara nodded. “I agree… but watching them…” She lowered her voice. “Look…” The couple sat staring at the cards. Mrs. Marsden wiped away tears. “I think… I’m probably making assumptions, but I actually think they come here to get them through when they’ve run out of food and their payday—whatever that is—hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Mr. Marsden came to her table and held out his hand. “Thank you.”

  She met his gaze—held it. “Anytime.” In a lowered tone, she added, “Every time.”

  For a brief moment, before he could turn away, she saw his eyes glisten. “Thank you. We won’t take advantage of it.”

  That’s when she knew. Lara waited until they reached the door before turning to Preston with a smile. “I was right. So glad I made that call. I’m going to check dates on those comp meals. I bet they’re always around the same dates.”

  Instead of the irritation she had begun to expect, Preston rested his arms on the chair, hands clasped before him, and nodded. “Just one more of the million little reasons I love you.”

  He couldn’t have said anything she needed to hear more than that. A silent message shot by a passing runner told her she needed to get to the kitchen. “I’ll be back when I can.”

  She’d only taken a step, maybe two, when he said, “Monica, would you bring me one of those salads when you have a moment? I didn’t have time to eat tonight.”

  Lara glanced around to see who he spoke to, but his gaze was trained on her. She swallowed hard. “Sure. I’ll send someone out with it immediately.”

  “I want a bill, too.”

  “Later. You might need one of Carlo’s black bean and mushroom burgers, too. I’ll tell him to get it marinating.”

  After his nod, she dashed for the kitchen. What she’d assumed was a minor catastrophe turned out to be a curious Carlo. But the whole time she told the story of the Marsdens—leaving out the ticket, of course—all she could think of was, Who’s Monica?

  New Cheltenham Chapel followed a slightly different calendar for “Holy Week.” Ty and the church’s elders contended that Jesus was crucified on a Thursday, and that left for “Maundy Wednesday” and “Good Thursday” services. His mother arrived at ten o’clock on Wednesday, ready to arrange the flowers, set up washing stations, and prepare the unleavened bread for the Lord’s Supper that evening.

  A silver chalice, to represent the money Judas received, would hold the juice. Beneath that, a swath of purple-red cloth to signify the robe He wore. One by one, they laid out the remembrances from those last days of Jesus. The towels, the pitchers, the thorny centerpiece they would weave into a crown for “Good Thursday’s” service.

  Mama took the time to check everything over once before pronouncing it done. “I’ll make the bread.”

  The door opened, and Lara wrestled in a few boxes. Ty dashed to help. “Wha—?”

  “Wayne made test sprays for the windows. He thought this week would be good because then you could use them for church.” She grinned at him. “They’re so gorgeous! I can’t wait to see my bouquet after this!”

  He took the boxes from her and gestured for her to lead the way. “Mama, you might want to stay and give your opinion on where we put these after she tests them out.”

  That’s all it took. The women converged on the boxes and began arranging the sprays in all the places they could possibly fit them, starting with the windowsills. Ty’s opinion didn’t matter. They agreed—the flowers and silvery-greenery would be perfect.

  Then, after all that, Lara beamed at him and then his mother. “I knew Ty would understand. Preston said not to bother with testing, but I think Wayne needs to know that they just can’t be any wider. People might brush against them and knock them off, then.”

  As she snapped pictures, Mama tried a dozen ways to arrange them on the long, narrow altar. “If we could only have one more…” She called out to Lara. “Do you think your flower man would make me another one? What would it cost me?”

  Lara came to stand beside him and look at the effect for herself. “You’re right. It does need another one.”

  She snapped a picture and sent it to Wayne with the words, Got more roses? Desperate.

  After sharing with Ty, as if he hadn’t read over her shoulder, she zipped it off and wrote another text message—this one to Preston. Flowers all decided and ordered. Aren’t they gorgeous in the windows?

  Something in the words—and he’d figure out what later—unsettled Ty. Just as she turned to reply to Wayne, he realized it had nothing to do with the words. Another decision about the wedding had been finalized, and he didn’t like it. I’d better make this week’s counseling about coming to a unity of faith. Their differences must be bothering me more than I thought.

  Once Mama had left for the kitchen, Lara turned to him and said, “Oh, I’ll be here Sunday. I got the assistant manager to take over for a couple of hours on Friday night and Saturday morning. I’m going to church with Preston for those, but I need to be with my church family for Resurrection Sunday.”

  “How did he like the compromise?”

  Her phone buzzed. As she dug it out of her purse, Lara gave him a bright smile. “Great. I think he just needed to know that I wasn’t avoiding even seeing what his church is like. I think he’s got this idea that I think it’s some weird thing like a super-secret Masonic rite or something.”

  Ty would have laughed, but just then she read her phone screen, and her face fell. “What is it?”

  “Preston hates the flowers.” A tear ran down her cheek, but she brushed it aside. “He wants lilies. He thinks they’ll look better with yellow dresses.” Another tear. Again, Lara brushed it away. “He’s probably right.”

  She gave his arm a squeeze that he couldn’t decipher. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  And out the door she strode. Only when he’d stared at the emptiness she left did Ty understand that squeeze. It was for herself. She needed reassurance. I didn’t give it to her, so…

  One small advantage to the low attendance on midweek services was how easy it was to ensure the foot-washing service didn’t drag on for hours. Ty called the men and women forward and split them—women on the left, men on the right. Just like at a wedding. Hadn’t thought of that before. Yet, the Lord is still our Bridegroom, and it only makes sense.

  Ty joined the men, kneeling before one of his toughest elders. Through the sound system, the gentle, plaintive notes of “Make Me Like You” reminded each person there that, as Jesus served, they should serve one another. They washed, and as Ty did, he prayed. Lord, humble me as You humbled Yourself. Teach me to see this man through the love You have for him. Wipe pride, arrogance, and bitterness from my heart as I wipe the water from his feet. And above all, as the song says, please make me more like You every day.

  Washing a brother’s feet was always the easiest part for him. Sitting, waiting, watching as that same elder swapped places and instead of moving down one as was the custom, knelt before him and began to wash—that proved the most humbling moment of all. Tears slid down Ty’s face. As he wiped them away, the sight of Lara washing Mama’s feet with gentleness and tenderness, a smile on
her face as she gazed up into Mama’s eyes only added to the emotional overwhelm.

  His heart jumped into his throat and lodged there. Ty tore his gaze away and fixed it on Elder Park’s rigid features. Why are you so hard and cold? Can’t you see—?

  The thought never finished. At that moment, Elder Park met his gaze, and an unexpected tear fell. Just one. It splashed onto Ty’s foot, and the man dried it with the towel.

  Ty rose and held out a hand to help his elder to stand. Elder Park wasn’t a demonstrative man, but Ty pulled him into a firm hug and whispered, “I love you, brother. Forgive me—for everything.”

  A call came in at eleven. Ty glanced at his phone, ready to let it go to voice mail, when he saw Lara’s face in the contact bubble. “Hey!” To himself, he added, Please don’t cancel. Time is going by too quickly to postpone these things.

  “The Jumping Pig is having a fish fry today—fish and chips super cheap and yummy. I was going to get me some before I come, and then I thought maybe you’d want some?”

  “Sure! I’ve got some ginger ale left over from the ladies’ Bunco night.”

  Silence preceded an outburst of laughter. “Sorry… but it sounded like you were part of ladies’ Bunco night—as in a night—never mind.”

  “Are you calling my masculinity into question?”

  “You said it, Ty—not me.” Lara’s giggle followed that. He could see the way her nose wrinkled, her eyes twinkled—as clearly as if she stood before him.

  I bet Preston loves to make you laugh like that.

  “Ty?”

  He swallowed down disappointment that appeared out of nowhere. “Yeah?”

  “Fish? Chips?”

  “Oh, sure. Thanks. I have ginger—wait. Didn’t we do this already?”

  This time, the silence hinted of something else. Embarrassment, perhaps? Irritation? I hope not. I don’t think I’d like her irritated at me.

  “See you in a few.”

  The call disconnected before Ty could reply. His thumb scrolled through his contacts, but Ty wasn’t confident he could bring himself to make the call. Still, it hovered over a number… a face. Before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped the screen.

  A voice came through after the first ring. “Ty?”

  “Mama…?”

  That’s all it took. “Praying, son.”

  She would, too. She’d taken that movie, The War Room seriously and to whole new levels. His old bedroom at home was papered in brightly-colored sticky notes—ceiling to floor on all walls including the sliding closet doors. On each note, a prayer request—for Aunt Ruby, the teen boys down the street, the gang members who treated her with respect but still needed Jesus. From the president to the CEOs who ran abortion clinics that made millions, his mama prayed for every one of them.

  Every day.

  “Wish I could tell you what to pray for. I don’t know yet. I just don’t know.”

  She began praying right then—first praising the Lord for His everlasting goodness in their lives and then specifically for Ty himself. She asked for wisdom, comfort, to know where in the Word he should dig first. Twenty minutes passed before she finally wound down.

  “Lord, for my boy’s heart, I ask that You cleanse it anew and fill it with love that overflows into every heart he meets. I pray that You bring the right girl into his life—one who loves You more than anything and who will delight in him as a person. Glory, glory, glory to You. Amen.”

  Several minutes passed after the call disconnected, minutes in which Ty prayed, asking the Lord to confirm everything his mother had said. Minutes in which Ty asked the Lord why he could only see Lara’s face. When he raised his head and he still saw Lara before him, he almost pleaded aloud for understanding, but one thing stopped him.

  The scent of fish and chips snapped him out of his trance. He saw Lara because Lara had arrived. “Hi.”

  “Didn’t want to interrupt your praying. Everything okay, or…” She snapped her mouth shut.

  “Or what?”

  An impish look took over her features. “Part of your job description or impromptu petitions on behalf of your… parishioners?” Lara winced. “Failed alliteration is the worst.”

  “No,” He reached for the fish bag. “Cold fish is the worst.”

  Lara snatched it back. “No ginger ale. No fish.” She gazed at a nonexistent wristwatch. “The clock is ticking.”

  The moment he stepped back in the room with a cold ginger ale in each hand, Lara squealed and shoved her phone in her purse. “I just got off the phone with the caterer. He came up with the most amazing vegan menu that also incorporates fish and egg dishes for the carnivores.”

  Vegan wedding food. Amazing. Those words do not blend well in my mind. Where’s the beef?

  “So now we’ve got nice food choices for the vegans—including an amazing portobello steak that tastes like prime rib! I had a version of it at Preston’s house one night, and it was better than a lot of real steaks I’ve had. These are supposed to taste better than most prime rib. So, I’m going for it. Oh, and we’re having a vegan carrot cake as one of the layers. We’re also having a regular, decadent chocolate cake layer for the rest of us.”

  Ty could have sworn she added, behind a bite of fish, “Not that I’m telling Preston that before I have to.”

  Just the man’s name seemed to put a damper on what had been the beginning of a pleasant afternoon. Lord, why is it that every time I find out more about this guy, I’m less comfortable. He’s a good guy—nice. He loves her. He’s not trying to convince her to move churches against her conscience. He’s willing to study to decide if they can blend somehow. That has to count for something.

  Her phone spat out a few familiar notes, but before Ty could identify it, she snatched it up. “It’s Preston. He’s probably late.” Mid-sentence, she switched her attention to the caller. “Hey, babe. You almost here?”

  It took exactly three seconds for her countenance to fall from pleased to disappointed. “Yes, I under—what?” Lara’s forehead furrowed and her lips grew tight. “How long have you known thi—?” If a frown could become “frownier,” hers did. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll take notes. Bye.”

  The first tear fell before Lara managed to disconnect the call. As if ignoring it would make it go away, she met Ty’s gaze with a determined one of her own and whispered, “Preston’s not coming. He never was. He’s not comfortable being counseled by someone who isn’t his pastor, but he didn’t want to disappoint me. His pastor said he—the pastor, that is—wouldn’t see him anymore unless he told me.”

  Cold fish would have to do. Ty abandoned his lunch and moved to kneel beside Lara’s chair. He gave her a quick hug and prayed for understanding and unity that he didn’t even wish for them anymore. After his “Amen,” he added silently, And please change my attitude. I’m so done with this guy, and I don’t think it’s fair.

  He’d taken a second bite of the still almost-hot fish when Lara’s phone jingled again. This time he recognized the opening strains of “Just the Way You Are” by Bruno Mars. Lara stared at the screen. Ty stared at her.

  With a sharp inhale, she tapped it. “Yes?”

  Several seconds passed where Ty only heard the muffled mumbles from the other side. “What? Seriously?”

  Her face froze for several seconds, her mouth open in an O reminiscent of old movie posters. “Preston, I’ve already ordered my dress!”

  With each second she listened, Lara’s lips thinned just a bit more. “But what if it looks terrible on me? Why didn’t you tell me before I went to Crossroads?”

  Once more, she started to protest, but Preston kept talking. She listened, head shaking, hands shaking, and finally, voice shaking as she snapped in the middle of Preston’s mumbles. “Fine. Just make the appointment and let me know when it is, then.”

  Her thumb tapped the screen. As that same, horrible song that Ty had learned to hate in the space of a day began playing through the phone again, she swiped until the phone we
nt silent. Black. First one tear and then the next fell from her eyes as she tried to look at Ty.

  “I have to cancel my dress order.”

  “I heard. What’s wrong? Is it breaking some dress code for the church or something?”

  She shook her head and stared back down at her hands, twisting the hem of her shirt into knots as she tried to regain control. “There is a St. James family dress. I’m expected to wear it. Period.”

  “But you aren’t a St. James yet.” Thank the Lord and Praise Him all the earth.

  “Apparently it’s been worn at every St. James wedding for the past hundred years. It’s non-negotiable.”

  At the tear that fell there, Ty jumped up to comfort her. Again. A squeeze to his heart wasn’t what he needed—not right then. So, while she fought back tears… and failed, Ty pulled the other chair close and put an arm around her shoulder. Again, I hope this is the right choice, Lord. There’s no way I’m going to let her cry there without comfort. Not happening. Note for me in the future, though. No more marriage counseling without the other party present.

  “Ty! What if I trip on it and rip it? It’s probably half-falling apart. If I breathe wrong, it’ll tear. The lace is probably worth more than my car.”

  “There’s lace?”

  “I don’t know!” Lara jumped up, ranting. “I could drop lipstick on it. I’d better not wear any—or burn a hole in it trying to iron—nope. I need to have it steamed. I could—”

  There, Ty stopped her. “Whoa… if you don’t want to wear the dress, don’t. Unless you love it, stick with your dress. You’re marrying Preston—not a tradition, not a dress.”

  “True… I do love my dress—aside from that awful bow. London’s taking care of that, though. She’s making it perfect. And now I can’t wear it!”

  This time, tears became sobs—sobs he suspected were the release of more stressors than the switch of a dress, the change of caterers, the need for a vegan menu and more than one kind of cake. The memory of Wednesday’s floral issues compounded it all. Not the dress she wants. Not the flowers. Is any of this wedding her preference?